Unexpected gratitude at 5:15 a.m., snow already piled high, and more steadily falling. A morning to myself, writing, with coffee. My studio a haven for a few hours, while I flail about like a spawning salmon, trying to get the words right. Working my way paragraph by paragraph towards the fresh water of what it is I'm really trying to say. Snowplows scrape the roads below our house, and out the window, a blur of white on white. Like love, like staying married, writing requires this: hard scrabble perserverance. So again and again, I show up at the page. And last night, on my way home, I stopped to buy a dozen roses wrapped in brown paper, for the man I love.